stonepicnicking_okapi

I am finishing up part 2 of African American Poetry, 250 Years of Struggle and Son ed., Kevin Young.

Tenebris by Angelina Weld Grimké [1880-1958]

There is a tree, by day,
That, at night, Has a shadow,
A hand huge and black,
With fingers long and black.
All through the dark,
Against the white man's house,

In the little wind,
The black hand plucks and plucks
At the bricks.
The bricks are the color of blood
and very small.
Is it a black hand,
Or is it a shadow?